


Mozart but Modern

by Daniello



Category: Gacha World (Video Game), Lunime & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-12 18:08:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21480628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daniello/pseuds/Daniello
Summary: A collection of DJ Phantom-centric drabbles I wrote mostly just for flash writing warmups, and also because this fandom really needs more fanfictions in this site.Prompts idea from "Some Alphabetical-y Writing Prompts" by skullinacowboyhat on Tumblr.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	1. Air

The coldest of winter is closing in, and Phantom watched, mesmerized, as every air that he breathes in puffed out to a thick fog through his lip.

He can’t wait to truly experience the Christmas event which his mentor had mentioned several times; having grown up all alone, Phantom never fully understand the event, and as such had no reason to celebrate it. Whatever it was though, he's hoping that the holiday songs they offered will be more… classic, in a sense. Or at least _mellow_, and nothing like the blasting rocks of Halloween or the popping romance of Valentine's Day his poor ears had to endured in the previous months. It was as if the modern music were out to personally maim him with how overwhelming they are. And not overwhelmingly _good, _mind you. Else he'll be out twirling around the city with hood drawn back. Instead here he stand, hunched, classical music playing at max volume from his headphones.

But, well, the Christmas won't be anytime soon. In the meantime, Phantom remains at the comfort of his backyard, blowing cold smoked from his mouth followed with a delighted giggle. He's still fifteen years old, after all, and he damn well gonna act like one for as long as he could.

At the back of his mind, Phantom knows it won't be long enough.


	2. Battle

Plenty always took the word ‘battle’ and immediately defined it by its literal sense. Sword clashing sword, or guns aimed to one other in a body-ridden field. Always so violent, crass and a whole load of gore galore.

Phantom was no exception to this.

He had experienced his own share of battles in the past. And while most of them were admittedly simply a musical duel against a rival musician, there were also a good number of battles he which are much, much more brutal. Physically, to boot. He breathed the bitter iron of blood oozing down from his broken nose. He grinded his teeth in shock as his shoulder dislocated. He had bruised arm, burnt hand, and even a lungful of smoke choking the life out of him (unsucessfully, of course. Seeing that he's still here). But none worth a note in the face of this: the overwhelming madness of hatred to the world at whole. The will to consume, to take and break.

Honestly, Phantom would choose to be blind over being corrupted. At least then he still had an inkling of sanity remaining in his head.

Now, though? In the depth of the corruption? Sanity is but a useless husk in the grand scheme of it all, peeled away, allowing the rabid emotions inside to run wild and eat him inside out. His friends could only defend against him, and even then they failed, their numbers trickling down under the force of his armies. Xavier, his mentor, was as lost cause; his own hands had made sure of that. This leave Summoner the sole man who had what it takes to face him.

Phantom had run down the entirety of Vinyl City. He had used nearly every ounce of his strength, an edge away from nill. But he's close, so close. Phantom would restore the world of music, purifying the circle off the offense and stains which reeks of modern-esque.

_Behold, the second coming of the Golden Age,_ he would sang.

Phantom sneered.

He'll be damned if he let some man and his tag-along fae disturb him now.

(And damned he was)


	3. Cold

Death embraces him. More so than ever now that the restrictions which comes from a human's consciousness was stamped down into husk of dust.

Phantom can taste the abnormality of the dead souls. Sticky, oddly enough. Like honey, treacly to one's hand, but bittersweet to the mouth. How curious, he thought, leaning closer. Phantom could notice distantly the lack of him caring; or his common sense, at all. He assumed the corruption had freed him from all those nonsense. Afte all, why care about the morality of reanimating corpses for battle purposes when he could simply _ rage. _ He was all but addicted to it by now, lashing out again and again to those who looked down on him and his fondness on the classics - they don't _ look down _ on him. Their reassurance of that was very much genuine. But Phantom doesn't care about that anymore, not when he's only looking for excuses to release his rage.

Rage was different for Phantom, however.

More commonly, rage was associated with a wild fire. Burning ever so spreading with no discrimination, turning ashes to all those that reaches their touch - critters, plants, humans, young or old, the fire are not picky. They burn for the sake _ to burn, _and nothing else.

On the other hand, there is Phantom. And _ his _ rage is _ cold._

It's not any less painful to those he aimed it at - in fact, some may even argue that his version of rage is _ worse. _ Whereas the burnt of a raging fire stings akin to a claw, tearing away the soft flesh of its victim with no mercy, the coldness of Phantom bites from the _ inside; _a chilling sensation that crawl under your skin, numbing your senses and leaving only a buzzing static in your head as you fell to the ground - breathing, but moveless as you watched in horror at the approaching figure of Death.

And then all that’s left is your corpse. Rotting and cold.


	4. Dream

The first time he met him, Phantom thought it was a dream. Or a hallucination; it’s been long since he had a proper sleep after all, the harsh pavement of the alley which he huddled in are not a comfort to lay on - the nightmares also help keeps him awake. He thought then, with more confidence, that _ I’m hallucinating. This can’t be anything but a hallucination._

With his back on the corner of the walls, he looked up, eyes wide with tears as the man standing before him crouched down with hand outstretched.

“Hey, the name’s Xavier. But you can just call me X,” the man— or X, apparently, greeted him so very casually. Either he didn’t care that he’s talking to a literal hobo, or he’s crazy. Such negative thought to have on a person being kind to him, but Phantom learnt that kindness is never to be taken by face value. “you seem to know your stuff with music. Wanna grab some food and babble about it? I know this pizza place right ‘round the corner; good shits, but a bit of nasty place.”

X cracked a grin. “So, what’d you say?”

Phantom blinked. And blinked some more.

“What.”

For whatever reason, X seems to have taken his utter confusion as a solid yes and promptly dragged him to the pizza place he mentioned earlier - it is as nasty as he described, Phantom noted. And the foods are some heavenly good shit, he noted as well while chugging down on his second plating. X talked the most between the two while Phantom stared at him with a cross of bafflement and gratefulness. Gradually, he began to inputs some of his thoughts as well into the conversation. X noticed the shift, but doesn’t call him out on it, and Phantom is thankful.

Even now, donned in his signature robe with Xavier on his side, the pair combining their music which left the audience breathless for more, Phantom thought,

_ Please never wake me up from this dream. _


	5. Exploring

He remembered being young. Being small, curious, and imagining himself being swept away by a heroic dragon; knights were stink, after all. Too white for his taste. 

But he also remembered being confused. Being lost.

Everyone around him seemed to discover a sense of self as the years passed. A girl twirled around to the tune of the stereo, dancing as if it was her lifeline. Another was cooking, fingers burnt by spilled oil, but face as bright as his blonde hair. Then there's the soccer player, the painter, and so on, and on.

And there was Phantom, founding none that interest him more than a day. The exploration itself was beginning to bore him; it frustrated him, really. 

He decided, on his thirteenth, "Whatever."

Afterward, he began to pick up odd jobs here and there. More for a financial need than actual want; orphans like him got to make money from _ somewhere _after all. He didn't care where he worked at or even what kind of job it is, as long as it paid off and doesn't get him in too much of trouble - one jail time in the lifetime is enough for him - then he's content.

But then he entered an antique shop.

It was bright, but warm. The owner was humble, but genuine. The payment was average, but being taken out once in awhile to eat in a nice place was everything to his tiny world. 

The soothing music playing in the background was something beautiful as well. He swayed to its tune, humming along as he swept the floor with a subtle dancing.

His search for self-interest never did stopped. The exploration was simply delayed.

But years later, with the memory of a peculiar antique shop in the corner of the street, he laughed in realization,

"Classical music, huh?" 


	6. Fear

Phantom know the taste of fear all too well, having feared many things. Inanimate or otherwise.

He fears the crawling sensation of a centipede as it roamed over his body. He fears the thunder, which shook the core of his heart, and showered him afterward by the coming storm. He fears his former matron. Though soft in words, the bruises she left on him were less so.

He fears this, and that, and him and her. Plenty of fears, too many to count but each he knows of with undesired familiarity.

This, however, is new:

To be _ feared._

He can't taste it, nor feel it. But he can _ see, _bright and clear, the horror which struck his victims as he closed in on them.

The wavering tip of their lips. The wide, wet eyes as they flickered through their surroundings, seeking for an escape (always none). And Phantom especially delights in the way their bodies would shook violently as their stuttered breath played melodically in his ears. A music, if of a gruesome one.

The corruption within will sang along as he takes his time in drawing out the agony he inflicted upon them and filled the hole inside him with each of their cries and begs.

No need for the rush.

After all, dead bodies can't feel fear.


End file.
